Wednesday, July 6, 2016

My Vagina Is A Sapiosexual Named Wilma




I realize it’s the day and age of hook-ups, dick pics, bruising the beef curtains, friends with benefits, titty-Tuesday, gettin’ some strange, batter dippin’ the corn dog, etc., and that is fucking awesome if that’s your thing. However, some of us aren’t so easily amused. I don’t care who you are or what kind of amazing sexual experience you have had, you’ve not even grazed the surface of delicious, hot, passionate, primal sex until you’ve melded with the mind and soul of another person.

I have a confession, so bear with me, please. This is difficult to say and even harder to describe. Where do I even start? OK, yeah… so… yeah, I… NO, this has nothing to do with that one time in college. Although, there was that one time in college. I digress.



This is different. This goes beyond that… deeper into the essence of my being, my Chi, my life force, my prana, my Manitu. Wait, this is actually past that; it’s deeper even. We need to soar past all of these flowy Buddhist/Taoist terms that I love so much, because they stop short of the tangible. We're heading into the area where you can't put your finger on it, but you can almost put your finger on it. I mean, it's like my vagina, only you can't quite put your finger on it. Okay, of course I know you can put your finger on my vagina, but please don't just yet. This goes even deeper - to that indescribable depth that is the essence of your vagina and soul combined into one. It's sexual. Holy fuck, yeah, it is sexual. Yet, it's not tangible like a cock or a vagina; it's more like the fire that burns within the soul of the vagina. Fuck it, I'm going to call it my "vagiplexchi." Yes, I made up that word, and yes, it's pronounced /vəˈjī/pleks/SHEE.

Seriously, say it. Say it out loud. Say my vagina's name out loud, “VAGIPLEXCHI."

No, fuck that.

I simply cannot take myself seriously enough to mar this article with a word like "vagiplexchi." It's got to be something simpler...Okay, it's a "Wilma." Yes, I will call my ethereal vaginal soul "Wilma," formerly known as "vagiplexchi." I feel compelled to address this awkward issue in hopes that I may not be the only Wilma out there.

I never felt like other girls. I did not have a sexuality, or sexual understanding, as distinct as other teens who were heaving with giggly awareness about their adolescent raging hormones, their pussy and dick jokes, their snide sexual innuendos that stemmed from their sudden (overnight!) sex drives. I felt different. Totally different. I never once shared the shameful secret that I felt something different than what they zealously (and constantly!) described. I have always had a Wilma and she is an entity all her own. Apparently, the fire and depth of Wilma is far stronger than hormones or mere mortal sex drives.

Sure, I had curiosity galore. I wanted to know what this shit was, but it was more of a clinical interest for me. And, beyond that, a fascination with what all these kids were suddenly feeling and describing. What the fuck was going on and what in the fuck was wrong with me that I didn't get it? I couldn't understand it. At all.

The first time it really hit me was when my best friend told me about her experience while watching the sex scene in Top Gun. She'd had this amazing experience, she said, and her panties got wet watching it!!


Nuh uhhhh... You're lying! They got WET?!?? Like you peed your pants? What do you mean? Panties don't get wet from watching a movie. I don't care what they're doing in the movie or how romantic it is. Panties don't get wet like that, do they?? You must have peed yourself. I didn't say any of that out loud, of course. I was too self-conscious to admit that this concept was downright foreign to me. Absolutely foreign, to the extent that I really believed she was lying, or she that didn't want to admit she had just peed her pants a little during the movie.

I had no concept of the physical aspect of sexuality. I just didn't feel it. There was that one time, in the middle of the night, at my dad’s house, behind the big blue chair where I let Sam kiss me for hours in some frenzied, hormonal, sneaky rendezvous. Here's the thing, though - I felt nothing. I felt tired and bored, and I wanted him to go home. That thing he was doing with his tongue in my mouth? I didn't dig it. I didn't understand it. Its redundancy bored the fuck out of me. I wasn’t disgusted; it was worse than that. I was apathetic and oh-so-very disappointed in the experience. What were Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis in Top Gun doing so differently than us behind that big chair? And why weren't my panties wet? If my BFF's panties could get wet just watching this stuff in a cinema, why weren't mine getting wet acting it out? I never talked to Sam again. I was scared that he knew I'd dozed while we were kissing and sensed this wasn't making my panties Top Gun-wet. Wasn't it supposed to? What was wrong with me?

Here is where it gets bizarre. Do you want to know when my panties got wet? When Adam in my geometry class helped me figure out the answer to #16. Wilma tingled deep down when Chris talked to me on the bus about his problems - the girl he had a crush on and how he was struggling with chemistry. That's the stuff my Top Gun-wet panties were made of: Communication, sharing, vulnerability, soul transparency.

This is the thing. You can touch my vagina. You can feel me up behind the big chair. You can shove your tongue down my throat with the rhythmic sensuality of Prince gyrating onstage to You Sexy Motha Fuckaaaaahhhhh, and I'll pretend I'm all about it. Oh yeah... I'll try like mad to do all the same things I see in the romance movies, waiting for it to hit me and hoping and praying it will. But I will feel nothing. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Just a sad sense of emptiness and utter disconnection. And then, a deeper ache further down yearning for something far beyond such simplistic hormonal desires that anyone could put his tongue or finger on. "Wilma" is NOT interested. NOT entertained. NOT hot and bothered. NOT wet. Not even moist. She is as dry as the Sahara at noon and as bored as watching paint dry.

I suppose we can whittle this down, like a wooden phallic symbol, into this lovely phrase - Touch my soul and you can touch my butt. Seriously, you can touch anything you want, but first, touch my fucking soul. Maybe just a little caress? And preferably before you send me a dick pic? Or shove your tongue in my hoo-ha, ok? 

Fellas, listen. I understand that you think you have the sexual prowess of Tom Cruise in Top Gun to make my panties wet like my BFF described in the 9th grade, but I promise you, you don't. Not with me you don't.

TOUCH MY FUCKING SOUL. Or, at the least, reach out for it.  

My vagiplexchi WILMA wants to hold your hand and talk about your first love,
why you love or hate the smell of pine trees,
where your first kiss was.
Hell, talk about quantum physics, astrology, or even algorithms.
Share what makes you burn alive with passion.
I mean, other than my hot ass, my perky tits, or tonguing my hoo-ha.
Share glimpses of your soul with me, and I'll be yours forever - mind, body, and soul.

I'll adore you like the stars and worship you like the sun. 
I’ll hang hungrily on your every word.
I’ll feel titillated with your every glance.  
My vagina will ache deeply for you, desperately wanting the fulfillment of you and your Top Gun offer.

Share glimpses of your soul, reach in, and brush up against my soul a bit here... and there.
Then, and only then, will Wilma long to meld with you.  
Just TOUCH WILMA FOR A FUCKING SECOND, okay?  

Because then? Then?! Yeah… Bow-chick-a-wow-wow, baby.

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